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10 NOVEMBER 2019

Ulysses: By Alfred Lord Tennyso

It little profits that an idle king,


By this still hearth, among these barren crags,


Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole


Unequal laws unto a savage race,


That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.


I cannot rest from travel: I will drink


Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd


Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those


That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when


Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades


Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;


For always roaming with a hungry heart


Much have I seen and known; cities of men


And manners, climates, councils, governments,


Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;


And drunk delight of battle with my peers,


Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.


I am a part of all that I have met;


Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'


Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades


For ever and forever when I move.


How dull it is to pause, to make an end,


To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!


As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life


Were all too little, and of one to me


Little remains: but every hour is saved


From that eternal silence, something more,


A bringer of new things; and vile it were


For some three suns to store and hoard myself,


And this gray spirit yearning in desire


To follow knowledge like a sinking star,


Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.




         This is my son, mine own Telemachus,


To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—


Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil


This labour, by slow prudence to make mild


A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees


Subdue them to the useful and the good.


Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere


Of common duties, decent not to fail


In offices of tenderness, and pay


Meet adoration to my household gods,


When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.




         There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:


There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,


Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—


That ever with a frolic welcome took


The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed


Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;


Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;


Death closes all: but something ere the end,


Some work of noble note, may yet be done,


Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.


The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:


The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep


Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,


'T is not too late to seek a newer world.


Push off, and sitting well in order smite


The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds


To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths


Of all the western stars, until I die.


It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:


It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,


And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.


Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'


We are not now that strength which in old days


Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;


One equal temper of heroic hearts,


Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will


To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.